Scar Tissue
by angryoctopus
Summary: Blaine Anderson isn't the boy he'd like you to believe he is. He's hurting and broken and hiding a very big secret. Full trigger warnings inside.


_**TRIGGER WARNING: This fic contains semi-graphic mentions of Self-Injury. Please don't read if you can't handle it.**  
_

_A/N: Real quick I'd like to thank my lovely friends Chauncey and Cas (because I don't have any clue who they are on here, bleh.) for reading/beta-ing/pumping up my ego enough to post this. _

He knows what's going to happen before he even walks into the house that day after school. He can feel it all building up, feel the shivers down his spine, and tingles shoot to the tips of his fingers and toes. He knows because he's been there before; again and again until he knows the feeling better than anything else. It's a constant in his life that, before these feelings crept up, he'd never known before.

He's jittery, ready to pop with the building of emotion, and if he was honest, scared of later. Because, as much as he _knows_ it's going to happen, he _hates_ that he has to, _hates_ the build up, _hates_ the emotion, and _**hates**_ that he only knows of one way to make it all better.

* * *

He's crying, _sobbing_, the way he only does when this happens. His shoulders are wracking and he's rocking on his bed, hugging his pillow and praying, _praying_ to a god he's not even sure exists to just make it _stop._

This is the worst part: the before. When he's still trying desperately _not _to, still begging not to. This is the before, when he's so deep, drowning in emotions so dark and suffocating and he cries because that's all there is. He's trapped in these _feelings _that he always, _always_, squashes down until they just fucking _spill out _and he just can't _control them _anymore_._

And that's why he does this. Because he can't handle it, because he doesn't know how to cope, because he just wants to be normal and _numb_ again.

When he finally reaches for his relief, hiding in the case of a guitar he never plays, his sobs have quieted mostly. Fat, hot tears still fall but at least now he can breathe. He grabs them, his dirtiest secret, hands shaking and breath held. He knows he's surrendered again.

The hardest is the first one. Pressing down on his leg- because he'd learned long ago that it was easier to hide and people didn't react well when they saw- willing himself, _daring himself,_ to pull, rip, tear, to take the plunge that would fix everything.

He drags and lets out a gasp, head thrown back and eyes dilating. God, he's forgotten. The pain washes cold through him so satisfying and numbing and god he missed it so much and he didn't even realize. After that first they come quickly across both thighs, they criss-cross and with each new one he's brought deeper into the blissful numbness that allows him to function.

_Two. Three. Four._

_Angry. Depressed. Hurt._

Each pooling of scarlet another god damned emotion leaving his tired body.

_Nine. Ten. Eleven._

_Disappointed. Lonely. Afraid._

There's a voice crooning in the background ("_All I need is your permission to heal," _and he tries not to think how close to home the song touches.) when he finishes. It took seventeen to bring himself back tonight. Though not the worst, he's glad he brought to box of tissues instead of his normal two. He dabs at the red, presses at it until it stops seeping and bandages them neatly with the gauze he keeps under his bed.

He can think clearly now and he lets out a relieved sigh.

* * *

Most of the time he isn't sure if the faint white lines on his thighs are pretty or not. He drags a finger across a wider one with a sad smile. A phantom ache throbs and he shivers. He knows he's fine though. It's only been a month and he'd be safe for at least another two weeks.

He keeps running his fingertips across his stripes admiring and regretting but he's safe. He's safe, he's safe, he's _safe._

* * *

He's been doing this for years. An agonizing cycle of _numbnumbnumb _broken every few weeks to months with _hurtinghurtinghurting _and emotions he was taught were shameful. ("_You're a big boy, now, Blaine. Enough with the tears. Men don't cry. Time to grow up.") _He's fallen into a routine and has figured out how to hide it all well.

Because as good as arms were, they were so obvious and people notice things. Bad things happen when people notice things. (_"Blaine, what are those?" Nick is scared and mad and so, so worried; he freaks and Blaine knows that he's going to _tell. _So he begs and cries and _pleasepleasepleaseplease_ and promises no more and Nick watches him carefully from then on and he knows he'll have to try somewhere different._) So legs are his back up and almost as good as arms and he can _hide_ so easily. Even when summer comes and even in sports. He thanks god that he's a boy and can wear long shorts with no questions.

And he's glad that he's learned how to lie well. How to smile brightly and say convincingly that, "It's nothing!" when he zones thinking about _redredred_ and people ask what's wrong. He feels bad but secrets are too important and the truth is too wrong.

* * *

He didn't realize boyfriends would be so hard. He didn't even, he didn't even _think _because there they were in his room and the bed was _right there _and Kurt's _hands _were down his _pants_ and oh, wow, and then his pants were gone and all of sudden Kurt was kneeling right in front of him and they've never done this before, not even close, and he hears Kurt gasp sharply and then...he remembers.

"Blaine. I-I- What are- Are these what I-" Kurt can't even speak, can't even look up at Blaine and he knows that he's disgusted with him.

And he's so, _so_ mad. 'Cause after all the shit they've been through it just has to be this, this _thing _that tears them apart. It's not fair; Blaine hasn't even- he hasn't done that in so long. Nine months. Nine months of steady emotions and feeling loved and loving himself and, most importantly, _no more pain. _It just isn't fucking fair.

Blaine jumps away from Kurt, pulls his pants up and runs from the room.

* * *

Blaine still remembers the first time he cut; long before careful placements, or scarring, or even scissors. He was young, then; too young to be feeling worthless, too young to be losing control, and too alone to not leap into the unforgiving depths of self-injury.

He had been so scared that his hands quaked as they made that first little scratch; all he could find at the time was a small pin that did little more than light a fire under his skin and had him jonesing for more.

That first time his wrists had little more than welts but he'd been so paranoid that he wore long sleeves for the next week. Blaine had even gone so far as to bandage the barely there scabs after that week and tells everyone that even glances his way that his cat got pissed and clawed him. He didn't own a cat.

* * *

Blaine realizes later as he sits in his room how much things have changed for him. He still runs his fingers over the scars littering his thighs whenever he sees them but now, instead of a morbid awe, he regards them with nothing more than contempt and more regret than he was aware a person could feel.

* * *

"Blaine, are you okay? Do you need anything?" Kurt's voice is barely a whisper, feels so soft in the tension between them. It changes everything.

Because he's never felt this way before. Not when he was so ashamed that first time. Not when his mother blatantly refused to get him help, even when he begged, because _it's not what Anderson's do_ and never speaks of it again. Not when Nick corners him and _forces him _to tell someone who would listen and help him _get better._ It didn't even feel like this with Cooper; when he sat there so quiet, barely allowing the words to seep past his lips because they _weren't allowed_ and then suddenly there was Cooper, all around him, crying and squeezing and _never again, B, never ever again. _

It's so different this time because- well, he doesn't know why. Maybe it's because this is _Kurt_ holding him close and he's never had a Kurt before. Maybe it's because this time it doesn't feel like an accusation or a judgment. It feels like acceptance and love and hope.

And then Kurt's there, rubbing at the small of his back and sprinkling barely there kisses on the top of his head. He says nothing, expects no explanations, demands no answers, and Blaine finds his courage in the silence, lets everything out into Kurt's chest.

His words stain Kurt's shirt as they fall from his lips; old fears and older insecurities. Scars are explained, hugs grow tighter, bodies closer, and it's like maybe Blaine will be able to breathe easy again.

Kurt speaks lowly in his ear. He asks him questions that Blaine needs to answer but is too tentative to volunteer; things like, "How long?" (Three years, one month, twelve days.) and, "What made you do it?" (Hate and control are the main reasons.) and even the big one, "When was the last time?" (Nine months, two weeks, six days.) Kurt keeps rubbing his back, keeps him calm and pressed against his chest, keeps whispering sweet nothings into his ear.

Blaine falls into a dreamless sleep for the first time in a long time.

* * *

It takes a long time for Blaine to let Kurt see his legs again. Kurt tries to reassure him, tells him that he could never be disgusted with him and that the scars were nothing but signs that Blaine is _so brave and strong._ It's hard for Blaine to believe that anyone would see him in that light.

When he finally lets Kurt see, he keeps his eyes shut tight and focuses on breathing (In, out. In, out. In, out.) for a solid two minutes.

When he feels soft lips on ruined skin he gasps, hands going to Kurt's shoulders to push him away. Because he can't do that- _shouldn't _do that- not there.

When Kurt lets out a soft, "Let me. Please." he does.

When, five, ten, twenty years later Kurt still presses soft kisses to barely there scars on his thighs Blaine lets him, without shame. He knows, now, that everything is okay; because he's better and he's healed and he'll never go back. Not with this beautiful man loving him the way he does.


End file.
